Some CTF T-shirts

I don't post here anymore. Now that I'm married, I have other outlets for my creativity. Carnal outlets.

But I will utilize it to post the first draft of the CTF t-shirts. Check out them?

Cinnamon Toast Funk hits the Internet!

If you've been following my life from a distance (you know who you are), then you know I occasionally make music with my good friend Daniel, in a musical incarnation we call Lenin & McCarthy. I've shared a couple of our amusing, scrubby demos here on the blog.

I also have another band. That band is called Cinnamon Toast Funk, and we are an energetic band who dabbles in the Motown sound, New Orleans funk, and the old soul music of the 1970s. It's a fun sound and a fun band to be in because it's my favorite kind of music.

Well, we've been playing together for about two and a half months now and we've finally got some simple demos onto the Internets. I urge you to check them out, as our three songs, "Funkencenter" (my personal favourite), "Did a Li'l Diggin'", and "Magically Delicious" are all thoroughly amusing, if nothing else. As usual, I preface them all by saying my vocals need work, as I'm learning on the fly. But don't let my manifest need to work on enunciation or staying on key prevent you from enjoying the stellar musicianship of the other four members of the band (affectionately known as Lunchbox, J-Squid, The Bee, and D-Spot, if you're wondering).

Brand new MySpace page right here.

40 Habits in 40 Days: (#13 - Procrastinating)

With my wedding only a hop, skip and a jump away, now seems like as good a time as ever to reflect upon my selfish habits that, for the sake of a high-functioning marriage, will likely have to be sacrificed. Over the next 40 days, I will count down 40 such habits that I am certain will see at least some form of elimination or evolution as I adapt to the marital way of life.


Procrastinate
pro-cras-ti-nate (proh-kras-tuh-neyt), verb
-ted, -ting

1. to defer action; delay: to procrastinate until an opportunity is lost.

Obviously, procrastinating is a real bad habit. That isn't to say that the others aren't, but, well, suffice it to say, zomnambulism isn't covered in the Preparing For Marriage handbook. Zomnambulism, unlike other marital problems, will be exacerbated, not alleviated, by good communication. Think about it: it's two in the morning, and suddenly I come down with a case of the jeebies. Desiring to communication, I wake Christy up and tell her I'm scared of a zombie attack. I ask her to go check outside for zombies. She poisons my Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. It's an asinine habit. Procrastination, on the other hand, is dead serious. It's the very reason this series is a week behind right now. It's the source of numerous other subhabits that I would like to address right here. Allow me to introduce you to the cycle of neglect. In the cycle of neglect, simple tasks and elements of life maintenance are ignored until all is lost. Consider this: it's Monday morning. I snoozemash until I'm late for work. I skip breakfast. I forget my lunch. I don't take a shower. On the way to work, I see that my car needs gas. I work. On the way home, I realize I need groceries. PROCRASTINATE. I crapeat. I tell myself I'll need gas before work. PROCRASTINATE. Back at home, I realize I should take a shower before bed. PROCRASTINATE. I think I should go to bed. PROCRASTINATE. I go to bed. The next morning, I snoozemash, and relive Monday morning like some sort of nebbishly pathetic version of Groundhog Day. By Friday, I haven't showered in five days, I haven't had a glass of water since Sunday brunch, my car is being pushed around town by angels, I'm out of money for groceries, and there's a leprechaun living in my pantry. Christy will tolerate this for one day, and then I wll be dead.

I hereby banish procrastinating to the annals of self-history.


Note: I imagine that if the cycle of neglect had a theme song, it would sound like this, with appropriately altered lyrics.

40 Habits in 40 Days: (#12 - Crapeating)

With my wedding only a hop, skip and a jump away, now seems like as good a time as ever to reflect upon my selfish habits that, for the sake of a high-functioning marriage, will likely have to be sacrificed. Over the next 40 days, I will count down 40 such habits that I am certain will see at least some form of elimination or evolution as I adapt to the marital way of life.


Crapeat
crap-eat (krap-eet), verb
-ting, crapate

1. To eat fast food daily, despite staunch personal goals to buy healthy, non-frozen organic groceries.

Everybody eats crap now and then, but my problem goes much worse. The difference between eating crap and crapeating is the difference between an occasional diversion from generally healthy eating, and a detrimental habit of stuffing one's face with greasemeat. Golly gee whiz, do I love greasemeat. I firmly believe I have an addiction to beef. Now, the truest irony of this horrible habit is that, when I go on a grocery run, I buy really healthy stuff. I know how to cook and I know how to prepare vegetables. If I stay in the house, I'm health-conscious, I drink a lot of water, I try to avoid starch. Heck, I always make a little too much, then store it in one to three lunzh-sized tupperware cannisters and take it to lunches. I'm a very, very responsible eater. Until I run out of groceries. Then, suddenly, instead of buying new groceries, I justify a disusting sting of crapeating by explaining to myself that I have no food at home each time that I'm hungry. It's basically self-sabotage, too. I could go get groceries, but then I couldn't crapeat. So I keep the cupboards bare (and open). And then I crapeat for days. Something tells me that this is the only habit that wouldn't get me killed, mind you. Christy would likely acquiesce, but when we're both four hundred and fifty pounds and our arteries were clogged with mayonnaise, I might wish she had.

I hereby banish crapeating to the annals of self-history.


Note: if you're trying to help, don't send me links to Youtube videos of french fries failing to grow mold, or cheeseburger grease melting balsa wood. I know. I know all of it and I don't care. Delicious trumps detrimental every time. If Windex tasted like a Bacon Mushroom Melt, I'd have to keep a personal home care worker on hand with a stomach pump every time I cleaned my bathroom mirror. Not a word of a lie.

40 Habits in 40 Days: (#11 - Pastewasting)

With my wedding only a hop, skip and a jump away, now seems like as good a time as ever to reflect upon my selfish habits that, for the sake of a high-functioning marriage, will likely have to be sacrificed. Over the next 40 days, I will count down 40 such habits that I am certain will see at least some form of elimination or evolution as I adapt to the marital way of life.


Pastewaste
paste-waste (peyst-weyst), verb
-ted, -ting

1. To leave the cap off the toothpaste tube, so as to dry out the dentifrice exposed to open air, hardening the front end, and inevitably forcing oneself to throw out a large gob of hardened toothpaste.

There really isn't much of an excuse for being a pastewaster. It frustrates me, because when I go to use the toothpaste, I always have to force a little pip of dried gook from the open end. Sometimes, it comes out too easily and winds up in my mouth, which, if you're also a pastewaster or living with one, you know is totally disgusting. So why do it if it bothers even me? It's a morning habit, so I'm sure one potential explanation could be the mid-level functioning I do before 9am. The reality is that I think it's an extension of cabinetscorn. Easily distracted as I am, I also tend to leave the lid off my shaving cream, leave the front door open, leave lights on in rooms I'm no longer in, leave car doors unlocked, forget clothes in the washer and the dryer, and boil water only to never introduce it to its intended teabag. Basically, I'm just an absent-minded fool. I have highlighted this habit over some of the others, however, because Christy already complains about it and she doesn't even live with me yet. I don't think there's any way around this being cited as a reason for a trial separation, or established as a motive for murder. The groundwork has already been laid.


Note: there are things I do not forget, but I can't remember them right now. Also note that despite aural similarities, a pastewaster is different from a pantywaist. Harrison ain't no sissy.

40 Habits in 40 Days: (#10 - Abstinence)

With my wedding only a hop, skip and a jump away, now seems like as good a time as ever to reflect upon my selfish habits that, for the sake of a high-functioning marriage, will likely have to be sacrificed. Over the next 40 days, I will count down 40 such habits that I am certain will see at least some form of elimination or evolution as I adapt to the marital way of life.


Abstinence
ab-sti-nence (ab-stuh-nuhns)

1. voluntary forbearance especially from sexual intercourse.

That abstinence has got to stop. It's a bad habit I've been carrying around with me for nearly a quarter of a century. Christy's not going to like it. I can just tell, despite my strict adherence to this rule thus far, it's time to make a major life change. Maybe I should get a book from the library?

I hereby banish abstinence to the annals of self-history (effective start date = May 09).


Note: awesome.

40 Habits in 40 Days: (#9 - Carbagging)

With my wedding only a hop, skip and a jump away, now seems like as good a time as ever to reflect upon my selfish habits that, for the sake of a high-functioning marriage, will likely have to be sacrificed. Over the next 40 days, I will count down 40 such habits that I am certain will see at least some form of elimination or evolution as I adapt to the marital way of life.


Carbag
car-bag (kahr-bag) verb

1. To use one's automobile as a gym bag.

Carbagging doesn't make much sense, especially when you've dropped ten and a half g-spots to be able to drive the little bugger around town. Why would you use something that valuable as a gym bag? Why there's just so much trunk space! Plus you never know when you're going to drive past a pick-up game of ball that's desperate for some additional blackness. I drop bombs on 'em. I'm not sure how this habit started. I'm certainly not a slob under my roof; I'm something of a neat freak, even. But when it comes to the car, it's tended towards operating as a portable gym bag and a temporary waste receptacle for the better part of seven years. This is a bad, bad habit. My car smells. There's less room for people when garbage takes up major space. Bees try to get into it all the time. They love it. But Christy isn't a bee, unfortunately, and all it's going to take is one time where we switch automobiles for her to lose all patience with me. Sure, she'll drive it forgivingly, but then she'll sever my brake line and laugh maniacally when I go over the hill.

I hereby banish carbagging to the annals of self-history, or rather, make plans to cover it all up with some Febreze.


Note: Carbagging is not to be confused with carpetbagging, which, defined as "to journey with little luggage", might be the exact opposite. I use my car as a bag. Carpetbaggers use a carpet, which as you can imagine, have nowhere near the trunk space of a 2001 Toyota Echo. All kidding aside, I totally do drop bombs on 'em.